


When You Put Your Arms Around Me

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 'bout it, M/M, They share clothes, just a small little thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a tumblr prompt about Athos and d'Artagnan wearing each others' clothes.</p><p>It starts off as innocent mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Put Your Arms Around Me

**Author's Note:**

> No specific spoilers. Tiny harmless little piece of fluff that I wrote a while ago; crossposting here while figuring out a way to get rid of writer's block.

this is how athos sees it:

it starts off as innocent mistakes. when they’re travelling, when they’re fighting, it’s hard to keep track of whose shirt has ended up in whose bag, especially as the dirt and blood accumulate. and given that d’artagnan and athos share slighter builds as compared to aramis and porthos, it only stands to reason that, sometimes, they end up wearing each other’s clothes. athos doesn’t even find out until much later, when he’s in his quarters and discovers that the blood stains on his shirt don’t correspond with the scrapes on his skin. he promptly returns the shirt to d’artagnan who unfailingly returns athos’ own, washed and neatly folded, and that’s the end of that.

just accidents, that’s all.

the fifth time it happens, athos thinks: _he smells nice_. it’s a stray thought, utterly meaningless: d’artagnan smells like sweat, gunpowder, dirt and horse, just like the rest of them. his shirt is as harsh against his skin as any of their shirts. it’s ridiculous. athos ought to dismiss the thought as such.

and yet. 

 _d’artagnan smells nice_.

(and if athos sometimes drifts off to sleep with d’artagnan’s shirt either on him or under his head, that’s neither really here nor there.)

then people start telling him: he’s smiling more. there’s a flash of d’artagnan in the flourishes that punctuate his swordplay, these days, a bit of playful showmanship that he hasn’t indulged in… well, for as long as he can remember. he sees his training in d’artagnan’s disciplined form, in the preservation of his technique even when under stress. and with that he sees porthos’ strength and aramis’ flair and something uniquely, ineffably _d’artagnan_  in how the lad is both unrelenting and economical in battle. it scares him, sometimes, but mostly, he’s proud. he’s poured so much into the lad, and the next time he’s jumping off the precipice of yet another of d’artagnan’s thoroughly ridiculous yet daring plans, his heart pounding and every nerve thrumming with song, he wonders how much d’artagnan has given him in kind.

(and a long-shadowed corner of athos’ soul used to sunlit meadows and lilting poetry echoes that song, but athos can’t, athos can’t–)

it’s perfectly reasonable, obviously–much like how he, aramis and porthos coalesced into a whole far greater than the sum of their parts. he tells himself this even as he feels d’artagnan’s desire for justice and the inevitable disillusionment like a hook between his own ribs; even as he understands, perhaps more so than aramis or porthos, the tangled threads of attachment that take root in one's soul almost like a disease, that has d’artagnan seek and seek the woman he loves but rarely understand her.

athos has spent his share of vigils by d’artagnan’s bed in times of injury or sickness; he has combed his fingers through d’artagnan’s ever-lengthening hair enough times for it to be stuck somewhere between casual intimacy and something more profound, more… private. it feels nice, though, and it helps d’artagnan relax even when fevered or in pain, and as far as athos is concerned, that’s that.

then there’s the time that d’artagnan flings an arm around his shoulders, fingers playing with athos’ hair almost absently as he chatters away to porthos. athos’ instinct is to flinch away, but it… it feels good. athos relaxes in d’artagnan’s hold, leaning into him infinitesimally, and it is neither enlightening nor terrifying but something as natural as taking a breath. where is the line between teacher and student? a ward and a caretaker? a friend and a brother? a brother and… something more? if nothing else, being a musketeer has taught athos to greatly distrust simple dichotomies; he and d’artagnan have given each other enough that it is no longer clear what they are–just that they _are_. for now, athos finds, that’s enough.

athos decides to grow out his hair.

-

this is how d’artagnan sees it:

they’re camping in the woods in the middle of a long and arduous mission, the air crisp and chill with impending winter. aramis is keeping first watch for the night while porthos is huddled closest to the fire with athos curled up next to him, his back to porthos’ back. d’artagnan rolls towards athos and flings an arm and an ankle over him, burrowing into him.

“d’artagnan,” athos says. the word is nothing more than a warm breath in d’artagnan’s hair.

“it’s warmer this way,” d’artagnan says simply. “and it is reassuring to know you are next to me always.”

and that’s that.

even in the flickering firelight, d’artagnan can see athos blushing. “d’artagnan,” he says after a few moments, voice noticeably hoarse.

“yes?”

“are you wearing my pants?” 


End file.
